


Skipping tracks.

by drinkginandkerosene



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: M/M, Reunions, Vices and Virtues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-15 19:17:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/853096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkginandkerosene/pseuds/drinkginandkerosene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryan decides to listen to the new album, finally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Skipping tracks.

I know the way I write about you makes it feel like there are no good times but that isn’t true.

There were a lot of good times.

Like when we were in Paris, and the rain poured down on us but we’d forgotten our umbrellas. We were soaked. We could have got a taxi to out hotel but we walked the entire way, and we kissed in tiny cramped doorways, and spashed into puddles, and when we got back to our room, we crashed into bed, chasing raindrops off our bodies with our tongues.

Or the time when we were snowed into my apartment building. We cranked the heating up to full, and lay on the couch watching pretentious indie movies (for me) and disney movies (for you), and when we ran out of proper food we swapped to nutella and popcorn and jelly, feeling like we were seventeen and home alone all over again.

Or when a guy tried to start a fight with me in a bar and shoved me, and you came from nowhere and punched a guy twice your size in the face, for my ‘honor’. I kissed every one of your bruises better later, but couldn’t stop giggling. Eventually you started laughing too, and we ended up howling in the street, two skinny boys sitting on a curb, one dripping blood.

You see Brendon, it’s much easier to pretend I don’t remember than admit I miss you.

The first time I listened to that album, I didn’t know what I wanted. I hadn’t looked at the track listings. I hadn’t watched interviews.  
When ever your face or your voice or youyouyou flickered onto the tv screen or the radio, I switched it off and promptly lit a cigarette, or if it was a bad day, went to the toilet to empty out my useless guts that were never good enough for you.

I never wanted to know what you thought of me.

I knew you weren’t the one to send it. It might have been Pete, or Spencer, or hell, even Dallon. I heard he wasn’t my biggest fan and had become my replacement on stage. Stage gay that wasn’t quite always on the stage for us, so had he replaced me in your bed too? Was I that easy to forget?

I slid the CD into my player, not quite sure why. I truly am a glutton for self-punishment. I made sure I had a bottle of whiskey? Scotch? Something in my hand, and lay back on the couch to listen.

The Ballad Of Mona Lisa wasn’t quite my thing. Bit too over-produced. Your voice was so familiar, and yet I hadn’t heard it in years. I’m not gonna be a cliche and say it all came flooding back, because it wasn’t the gentleness of water, it was the force of a sledge hammer.

Kill Tonight was crowd-pleasing nonsense. The clapping and the air-raid sirens? Really Brendon? You don’t connect through that, do it in the words. The words are always enough.

I sat up during Hurricane.

/You’re behind my eyelids when I’m all alone./ Was that… Me? Was that about me? My heart pounded and my throat burned from the booze I’d just swallowed. I listened more closely to the rest of the song but all I heard was sex and God. Not too far from Fever to be honest. Put a few more electronic beeps in there and it wouldn’t have stuck out. Maybe we haven’t progressed from fucked up teenagers at all. The only difference is the distance.

Memories was about you. I remember you telling me, your voice on the very edge of breaking, how you decided to fuck your parents, your religion, join the band. I was a corrupting influence even then. Perhaps you had listened too much to my atheist ramblings. You put too much stock in what I thought.

Trade Mistakes. My breath hitched in my throat. There was surely nothing else this could be about? Our breakup. Not the bands. Ours. You had told me it was for the best, you’d still be there to help me, you just wanted to help, you were all worried. I never wanted your pity Brendon. I wanted you to love me. That’s all I wanted. But I was too broken for you, and too self-pitying. I couldn’t bear to be around you if I couldn’t kiss you. Be with you. I wanted to be selfish, to keep you mine. You didn’t want that. So I left. I remember crying as Spencer and you just watched as I pulled my coat on, grabbed my shit from the rehearsal room. I walked out and John was the only one who followed. I will always be thankful to him for that. I lost my best friend and my boyfriend on the same day.

Ready to go just passed me by, still in shock from Trade Mistakes, though the bits I caught sounded like you were happy.

Always. It was a love song. But was it a message? /Blink back to let me know/ I became aware I was biting my nails, a habit I kicked when I was fourteen.

The Calendar removed all doubt. Every word stung like it was coated in salt and dipped in the cuts inflicted by my own hand. I don’t know what you want from me. Did you know I’d hear this? Was it an invitation? Each word seemed to be both insulting and pleading. My face flushed at one line. /At night your body’s a symphony…/

You used to trace musical notes on my back, secret messages to yourself, and you’d kiss them afterwards, music on my sweat stained skin. I think that’s when I was happiest. Just you and me, hard to tell when one of us ended and the other began. We were so wrapped up in each other. So in love.

Sarah Smiles added a whole other layer of confusion. Who the hell was Sarah?

The last song floored me. I helped write this. We wrote this together. It was my love song to you. When everything still seemed perfect. /It’s the only thing, that makes me feel as good as you do./ All of a sudden I was fumbling for my phone, fingers slipping on the buttons, and holy shit was I crying? I hadn’t cried since I had left. I froze for a moment. You’d changed the words a little. /My one regret is ever letting you go./ “P-Pete? Yeah, it’s Ryan. Have you got Brendon’s number? It’s important. Please Pete. Please.” I scrawl the number and hang up without saying goodbye. I type these numbers even quicker, and as the music is still playing, you pick up. “Brendon? It’s Ryan. We need to talk.”


End file.
